


in sickness and health and sickness again

by authoressjean



Series: the changed future [8]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, okay there's a bit of angst, yes you actually read humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-07-16
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/authoressjean/pseuds/authoressjean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 'leave me your fears', pre 'the first day of the rest of your life'.</p>
<p>It starts with a sneeze and spreads through the mountain like a wildfire. The men who brought the illness have, of course, already vacated the mountain for the winter, leaving the inhabitants growing sick one by one.</p>
<p>It'd be a lot easier if certain dwarves remained abed when they were supposed to. Of course, those certain dwarves would say it'd be a lot easier if certain hobbits weren't so fussy about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in sickness and health and sickness again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Follicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Follicks/gifts).



> Certain readers requested the continued story from "don't make me hear your death cry" where Bilbo yells at a sick Dwalin in front of his Guard and then tears a new one into the Guard. Um. This is it, along with a few other plot points I wanted but couldn't put on their own because they were so tiny.
> 
> I'm dedicating this fluff to my dear and darling Follicks who continues to be amazing. Legolas and Kili refused to cooperate as I wanted them to, however, with this fic: they wanted to stay away from the limelight, and you'll soon see why. I hope you still enjoy it sweetie! Thanks for continuing to be amazing with the podfic!! (And if you haven't heard her reading of 'to change' why the hell not? Go go gooooooo.)
> 
> WARNING: there is talk of being ill. I don't like yicky things so you'll not see anything seriously violent or graphic here, I promise. I'm just warning you if you have a REALLY weak stomach.

It started with a simple sneeze.

The dwarves didn’t realize how much they would hate that sound, in the weeks to come.

 

It began in the guardhouse, a few guards catching ill so violently that Dwalin was left completely puzzled. One day, they’d been fine, and the next, there had been missives sent, begging apologies but stating that they were too ill to come to the gate. Dwalin had sent two guards to ensure they were all right and had told them to aid them with a healer if they weren’t. Healers had been called, according to his two guards, and things went on.

Then the guards he sent came down ill.

“It’s a illness of men,” Oin said. Dwalin pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Then why are my _dwarves_ catchin’ it?”

“Did any of them trade with men, recently?”

The winter winds had made that difficult. But a few men had come from the weak city of Esgaroth, hoping to line pockets to build homes in the birthed city of Dale. And his guards had been on rotation to wander the markets this past week.

He cursed under his breath. “What am I s’posed to do?” Or if there was even anything he _could_ do.

“Let them rest a bit, get it out of their gut. They shouldn’t be out more than a week, for the ones hit worst with it.” Oin was already moving on to mixing something that looked like what Dwalin had scraped off the bottom of his boot the other day. He wrinkled his nose when Oin tasted it, frowned, and added something else. “I’ll see what I can do about a potion to help settle stomachs and the like.”

“There’s no cure?”

Oin gave a sigh and glared at Dwalin. “Time is the cure, and that’s all there is to it. The men have no cure for it, either. It’s just a stomach sickness that often goes to the head and leads to sneezing and coughing and everything else. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got to prepare: if it started in the markets, there’ll be more dwarves than your guard coming for remedies.” And he set his ear horn down, effectively letting Dwalin know that the conversation was over.

Dwalin rolled his eyes but left. The men had departed days ago, the storms outside having waned enough for them to leave and make for home. None had wanted to stay in the mountain, not when they had kin and hearth waiting for them. Dwalin didn’t blame them: he had his husband waiting for him, probably wondering where in Mahal’s name he was. His shift had been over for an hour now, but tracking Oin down had proven difficult.

Still, before he could rest, he had to warn his guards. They were good lads and lasses, and he always tried to give them a warning when danger lurked around the corner.

And this was certainly a danger. One’s stomach was precious; losing the contents due to sickness was most certainly a risk.

 

Dernwyn fell ill next. And Fili quickly learned that his wife, when sick, was just as much the same as she was any other time.

That was to say: she was still stubborn to a fault.

“Leave me ‘lone,” she muttered from under the blankets. What little he could see of her appeared to be pale, almost as pale as her limp blonde hair. A small urn rested beside the bed, waiting for use. And she’d made a great deal of use of it already, leaving Fili wincing in sympathy.

“You need to drink something, Oin said,” Fili said. He’d backed down earlier when she’d sent him away, but she’d been sick three more times since then, and Oin had warned of dehydration. It wasn’t happening, not on Fili’s watch. “Just some water, that’s all. It’s even cold.”

“It’ll come back up,” Dernwyn groaned, but she reached out to take the cup. Fili kept hold of it to help balance as she took gentle sips. Her hair was plastered to her forehead, and her skin was sickly pale. Her eyes looked bleary with what little sleep she’d been able to get – and it hadn’t been much – and her usually vivid red lips were barely noticeable against her wan face.

She still looked beautiful.

He risked a kiss to her forehead, inwardly flinching at the heat that he could feel. “Get some rest,” he said when she weakly pushed the cup away. “I’ll just be by the fire looking over a few things. If you need me, just-“

“No, you’ll get sick too,” Dernwyn insisted. She waved him off, then flopped back into the bed. She mumbled something else into the sheets and pillows, and Fili couldn’t have helped his grin if he’d tried.

“What was that?”

“Go ‘way,” she translated, opening one tired eye to scowl at him. He chuckled.

“Anything you ask, my beautiful princess.”

“Oh _hush_ with you,” she grumbled. “Don’t make fun of me; I’ll be sick all over you. Go _away_.”

Fili just chuckled and headed for the hearth.

“Come back.”

The whisper instantly pulled him away from his destination, and he turned with a warm smile. “I thought I was supposed to hush and go away-“

“No, the urn, come back!”

It was training from years of dwarven battle tactics that helped him reach her – and the sick urn – in time. “I didn’t make fun of you,” he pointed out when she was done.

“Was I sick all over you?” she croaked.

“…No.”

“Then the oath’s been fulfilled. _Now_ you can go away.”

He turned for the hearth again, ears listening intently for a frantic plea to return. But by the time he reached his seat, Dernwyn was asleep, and hopefully would get the rest she desperately needed.

Even if it left him with the sick urn to take care of.

 

It wasn’t often that Ori was up before his husband. Dwalin was usually gone by the time Ori woke up, giving his head a brief kiss before departing for the guard. Ori would wake a bit later and head down to the library to sort and stack and possibly, even, rewrite. Old tomes were being discovered in various tunnels as the rebuilding of Erebor continued, and they were all turning to the Royal Scribe for help.

It kept him busy, but he liked it. Not nearly as much as he liked waking up next to Dwalin, though.

Ori rolled over with a happy sigh. “Good morning,” he murmured before pressing a kiss to Dwalin’s head. “Did you want…”

Then the heat registered, and Ori sighed. _Damn_ it all. “Wzzut?” Dwalin mumbled. “Time’sit?”

“Time to rest,” Ori said. He slid from their bed and moved to the washstand. There was cool water there, and he dipped a cloth, squeezed it twice, then made his way back to his husband. Dwalin was groggily opening his eyes. He flinched, then let out a sigh when the cool cloth was dropped on his head. How long had he been burning? “Why didn’t you _say_ anything?” Ori asked, but he already knew the answer.

“Din’ feel so bad las’ night,” Dwalin muttered. “M’fine.”

Oh no. Oh _no_ he didn’t. “You are _not_ getting out of this bed,” Ori said firmly, and he pushed Dwalin back down with one hand when the other dwarf made to rise. “You _will_ be staying in bed all day-“

“Ori-!”

“-and I won’t hear any complaining about it. Rest and fluids are what you need. “ He’d call for Oin, just to make certain, and then he’d make up some of that honey tea that Dwalin complained about but secretly liked.

“Need t’get to the guard,” Dwalin growled, attempting to sound firm and fierce. The cough he let out at the end didn’t help, and by the time he was done coughing, he was all but curled up on himself, and he was wheezing. He opened his eyes, giving Ori what he thought was probably a firm glare.

Ori’s returning glare had power and fire behind it, and Dwalin huddled back under the blankets at the sight of it. “Regrettin’ teachin’ you that glare,” Dwalin said. Ori glared harder. Dwalin pulled the blankets higher.

“Are you getting out of bed today?” Ori asked, and for all Dwalin’s stubbornness, Ori hadn’t married a stupid dwarf.

“Not unless I have to.”

“There _is_ no have to.”

“If the guard needs me-“

“They can manage it on their own,” Ori insisted. “Or they can pull it out of their own-“

Dwalin coughed loudly, covering the end of _that_ sentence. “Where you learned that language, I dunno,” Dwalin managed as he recovered.

“Certainly not you.”

“’Course not. I’m respectable. M’husband says so.”

Ori finally caved and gave a grin. “And your husband is telling you now to stay in bed. I’ll get Oin and be back before you know it. If you’re a single inch further out of bed, I’ll know.”

“Eh, I’ll be fine, don’t you worry any. Send up Oin if y’have to.”

“I do have to, thank you very much. After he’s gone I’ll ask Bilbo if he’s got any extra honeycombs to spare: marketplace is sort of vacant right now until the sickness has gone through the mountain.“

“Wait, what?” Dwalin asked, pushing himself up onto his elbows. Ori gave him a shove with a huff, and he went toppling back into the bed. It didn’t take much.

“The marketplace, you hadn’t heard? It’s-“

“No, n’that. The honey. Why?”

Ori blinked. “Because I need it…to make you tea? It’ll help and still keep you hydrated.”

“Y’got to get to the library, Ori. I know they’re harpin’ on you.” He gave a woozy grin. “M’brilliant Ori.”

With a soft chuckle Ori shook his head and gently pulled the cloth from Dwalin’s head. “No, I don’t have to. I’m going to take care of you. The library can wait. I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a pause before Dwalin mumbled from the pillows, “Get me a pail, then?”

Oh, Ori had heard about this part enough from Fili. He quickly hurried and found an almost empty pail and after emptying its contents on the floor – he’d find another home for the random blades Dwalin tossed in there after a long day – hurried to his husband.

Only to find Dwalin out cold, snoring slightly, hand resting on his belly.

Ori stared for a long moment, blinking. Then he set the pail down beside the bed, right where Dwalin could find it, and headed for the door. The sooner he could find Oin, the better.

And hopefully the healer would be able to convince Dwalin to stay in bed for longer than a day.

 

The urgent knocking at the door caught Bilbo’s attention, and he frowned, setting his book aside. “Bilbo! It’s me!” Ori called through the door, and there was more desperate knocking. “Kili said you were up here! Bilbo!”

People that pounded on doors were rarely doing so because they thought pounding was the way to go. No, they pounded because they were enraged, excited, or anxious. Ori certainly sounded like the latter, which was worrisome. When he’d come by two days ago asking for honeycombs and to confirm Dwalin was now one of the sick, he’d been quiet and reserved but still cheerful.

Bilbo quickly threw open the lock on the door and opened it. Ori looked pale, pale enough to make Bilbo worry. “You’re not sick too, are you?” he asked. Thorin hadn’t let him anywhere _near_ those who were sick, worried that this illness that was ravaging the dwarves and poor Dernwyn would take a terrible toll on a smaller hobbit.

“No, no, but it’s…” Ori bit his lip, all but vibrating out of his skin. Perplexed, Bilbo held out his hand to offer him inside for a _very_ calming tea. With perhaps a bit of brandy in it.

“Why don’t you come in and tell me-“

“It’s Dwalin,” Ori said, wringing his hands, and suddenly he looked furious. “He went and _left_! I _told_ him to stay in bed because he’s still far too sick, but what did the guards do? Tell him he had to go, so he went! Oh I don’t feel good.” And he sat down on the ground in front of the door, looking ready to pass out. “I don’t think being worried and then being angry so swiftly afterwards are good for me.”

Bilbo quickly ducked down to Ori’s level. “Dwalin…left? For the Guard?” he asked. According to Ori, Dwalin had been very ill indeed, and had spent the first day being sick and coughing until he could barely speak. Even Thorin had been concerned: according to him, dwarves weren’t usually ill, and Dwalin never.

Ori nodded, still looking a little cross-eyed. “I begged him not to. Apparently there was something that demanded his attention. Something about…the new gate, I think they said.”

The new… Bilbo’s eyes widened. “ _That’s_ what they saw fit to pull him from his sickbed for? Those…those absolute…” He let out a large snort of air, suddenly so infuriated he could barely see. “That’s a simple placement of guards!”

“He’s head of the Guard, though,” Ori pointed out, but there was a flicker of anger starting to come back into his eyes, too.

Bilbo put a hand on Ori’s shoulder: better for the dwarf to stay seated before he got angry and just had to sit down again, anyway. “I don’t care. Anyone could’ve done it, it didn’t have to be Dwalin.” And Dwalin should’ve known that. Leaving Ori completely disoriented and worried for, what? No reason at all.

Sometimes, he adored the ingenuity of the dwarves. And then there were times when Bilbo wondered if they didn’t all have rocks for brains.

“Are we…”

“Sit,” Bilbo barked, heading for the guards. One way or another, Dwalin was going to be back in bed, even if Bilbo had to drag him there himself. No one was going to get any better if they kept wandering around! At least Dernwyn had the good sense to stay in bed.

He stormed down the pathways, unaware of the wary looks he was receiving or the small crowd that had begun to follow him. By the time he reached the guards, there were a dozen dwarves trailing behind, his nephews included, and all of them were giving him a wide berth. He stalked up the small stairs to the top of the wall above the main gates where the guards were.

Dwalin was there, looking absolutely wretched but still there. The other guards were asking multitudes of questions of him, and Bilbo asked himself who he should start on first. The guards, or Dwalin? Guards, Dwalin, guards, Dwalin…

Dwalin glanced up at him and frowned. “What?” he said, and that settled that question quite nicely.

“What are you doing out of bed?” Bilbo demanded.

The dwarf rolled his eyes and nearly unsteadied himself. “M’fine; needed to assign the guards,” he said, before coughing. He sounded awful, and Bilbo wondered if he had a handkerchief on him to loan to…

_Focus, Bilbo: stay on task._ “And anyone could do that, you certainly didn’t need to get out of bed to do so. You can barely stand!”

Dwalin’s face was getting red: either from being called out on his sheer stupidity, or because he was getting angry, Bilbo didn’t know, and neither did he care. He felt as if he was dealing with a little hobbit who refused to stay abed. Honestly. “You could have done this from your bed, you know.”

“Now listen ‘ere-“

“No, _you_ listen!” Bilbo snapped, and Dwalin’s jaw shut with a click. “Your being out of bed is setting unreasonable expectations on yourself and the other guards. What are you going to do if someone attacks us? Be _ill_ on them? Or, no, you could sneeze on them, that would be _much_ more effective. Is that what you would do?”

“I-“

“Of course you wouldn’t!” he said, answering his own question. “Your only task when you’re sick is to be sick! And in bed, drinking tea and sipping broth and gaining your strength back. Not…not _frolicking_ about above the gates!”

Dwalin stared and only mouthed ‘frolicking?’ indignantly, if one could mouth such a word in such a way. No matter. “Back to bed with you _right_ now, and I may be persuaded to convince Bombur to send you a few honeycombs with your tea.”

“But-“

“Butts and bottoms are for sitting,” Bilbo said, remembering the oft quoted phrase from his mother. “Do I have to drag you by the ear, or will you go willingly?”

Dwalin looked as if he’d been poleaxed. Bilbo waited impatiently for the reply, arms crossed, foot tapping on the stone floor. “Well?” he asked, and his voice clearly said it wouldn’t be asked again.

There was a curious red flush creeping up Dwalin’s neck, highlighting his tattoos marvelously. Further proof he should be in bed resting…though Bilbo highly doubted it had anything to do with his being sick.

Slowly Dwalin started moving for the door. Good. “Wise choice,” someone muttered behind him, and one of the guards smirked. _Oh_ no they didn’t.

“And what about all of you?” Bilbo demanded, causing Dwalin to halt in his tracks and the guards to all freeze. “You all demanded him leave his bed to, what, essentially fill out a _duty roster_?”

“Well-“

“Does he look like a dwarf who should be out of bed?” Bilbo pointed to Dwalin where he’d stopped. The dwarf looked miserable and pale, more than he had before Bilbo had started ranting at him. A lot more, actually. He wondered if he’d had any part to play in it.

Probably not.

“…No?” a guard finally dared to venture.

“NO! He should NOT! And the fact that you’ve dragged him from his rest just to keep yourself from a bit of paperwork is deplorable! My mother would’ve twisted your ears for being so foolish and childish.” He made the gesture with a quick twist of his wrist, and the guards all flinched. “You will _not_ bother the Captain again until he’s well; do I make myself clear?”

A general mumbling was heard throughout the guards. “Do I?” Bilbo asked a little more loudly, and he stepped towards them to be better heard.

All of them straightened and took two steps back, nearly sending more than one guard over the wall. “Yes, m’liege,” they chorused quickly with wide eyes. “Absolutely, yes, of course.”

That would keep Dwalin in bed for quite some time, Bilbo thought. Satisfied, he gave a sharp nod and turned to leave. He blinked at the dwarves he found standing there, all of them staring in wide eyed fascination or straight up amusement, in the cases of Fili and Kili. Bilbo narrowed his gaze at them all.

As one they suddenly had other things to do and quickly departed. Bilbo rolled his eyes and headed down the corridor, easily catching up with Dwalin. “Gonna yell at me again?” Dwalin asked, refusing to look at him.

Bilbo sighed. “No.” He pushed himself against Dwalin’s side, giving the dwarf a prop as he walked. “You really shouldn’t be out of bed, you know. And you _did_ scare Ori.”

“You scared me more,” Dwalin muttered.

As if he’d scared Dwalin. “Scared the guards most,” Bilbo countered, and he finally got a chuckle that turned into a cough. “Bed with you.”

“I want honeycombs.”

“Yes, yes, I’ll get you honeycombs as promised.”

“And buttered bread.”

“…I don’t know that that’s a good idea. When you feel better, perhaps.”

 

Thorin absolutely ached, his gut wrenching with each breath he took. When he could breathe, at least: each breath was hard fought for, and he wheezed with each one. He didn’t think he’d ever been like this before. And still the torture went on.

“…and he told them, ‘I’ll twist your ears!’ and he even made the little motion and their eyes were this size, Uncle, I _swear_ -“

Thorin finally managed to stop laughing long enough to breathe, wiping his tears away. “It wasn’t funny,” Bilbo insisted, glaring at Fili and Kili. “They hauled Dwalin out of bed for paperwork!”

“He was looking for an excuse to get out of bed and you know it,” Fili said. “You just gave him the best excuse on how to get back _in_ to bed.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes. “Are you quite finished?” he asked Thorin irritably.

“I am,” Thorin swore, even as he shook from more laughter. “I will be, at least, I promise.”

“You should’ve seen ‘em; they were ready to leap over the wall if it meant getting away from Bilbo,” Kili said, and the thought of all those large, dwarven guards sailing over the edge in an effort to flee from an angry hobbit set Thorin off again.

“If you want to see a repeat, keep laughing,” Bilbo huffed. Kili started laughing at the indignant look on his face, and Bilbo gave him a shove off the bench. Kili didn’t stop laughing even as he landed on the floor.

Thorin actually didn’t want a repeat: at least, not one aimed at him. “Go,” Thorin told his nephews, waving them towards the door. “I’m sure your mother would love to hear the story.” As would every single member of the company, if the gossip that was running around the mountain hadn’t reached them first.

They went, but paused near the door. With a sly grin at one another they made a quick pinching motion with their hands, then hurried out the door, laughing all the while. Bilbo scowled at them as they went. Thorin snorted and turned it into a cough. Slowly his husband’s eyes swung over to him. “A little dry in here?” Bilbo drawled.

“Perhaps,” Thorin allowed. Bilbo’s lips were finally turning up into the grin he’d refused to show Fili and Kili, though, and Thorin chuckled. “I’m certain Dwalin will have hand motions and words for you when he begins feeling better.”

“Oh, I gave him honeycombs, he’ll be fine,” Bilbo said with a wave of his hand. “Besides, I’m not worried about him. Ori will keep him from saying anything too dreadful. And he really shouldn’t have been up there and you know it.”

No, Dwalin belonged in bed: his friend had looked miserable when Thorin had checked in on him. Most of the mountain still looked that way, though many were slowly getting better. “How is Dernwyn?” he asked.

Bilbo rose from his seat and headed for the kettle hanging above the hearth. The main room was surprisingly empty, a sharp contrast from how it was usually filled with members of the family or company. Still, it was nice to enjoy the time with only Bilbo. “She’s still ill; Dwalin _is_ doing better, but Dernwyn’s been hit hard by it. It is a human sickness, after all. It doesn’t truly surprise me.”

It didn’t surprise Thorin either, though he still worried. “Did you give Dwalin all of our honeycombs?” he asked when Bilbo only stared at the shelf with the teas on it. “There won’t be too many more until the snows clear, at least enough for the men to return to the mountain.” If they were well, that was. Thorin considered sending a crow down to Esgaroth and Dale to inquire just how well Bard’s people were doing.

It was only when he realized that Bilbo hadn’t answered him that Thorin frowned. “Bilbo?” he called. Bilbo stood still before the hearth, back to Thorin, and he didn’t answer. Concern growing, Thorin rose from his own seat. “Beloved?”

When he reached his husband, Bilbo looked pale in the firelight. “Bilbo?” he ventured again, a sinking feeling in his stomach. “What’s wrong?”

Bilbo swallowed harshly and looked up at Thorin. “I think…” Then he promptly bent over and was sick all over Thorin’s boots.

Thorin let out a slow, deep sigh. He really should have known. “I suppose that’s what I deserve, having laughed at you earlier?” he asked wryly.

Bilbo only gave a soft moan in response. Carefully Thorin reached down to undo the clasps on his boots and step out of them. “That was sudden,” Thorin commented, raising a hand to Bilbo’s forehead and finding it warm. Too sudden. Thorin suddenly narrowed his gaze. “Or have you been feeling ill for some time?”

“Why do you think I wanted tea?” Bilbo whispered, his voice raspy. “Don’t tell Dwalin.”

Thorin shook his head but slowly lifted Bilbo into his arms, hand placed gently under his husband’s knees. “I will not tell him,” Thorin promised. “Though he isn’t a fool: he _will_ guess.”

“He’s a head full of rocks; walking around to fill out papers when he should be in bed…”

Bilbo kept muttering and mumbling about various things as Thorin brought him to their chambers. Nights of practice let Thorin pull the covers back without dropping his precious cargo. Bilbo shivered upon touching the cool bedding, and Thorin gave a soft sigh. “You weren’t supposed to be sick,” he murmured. “I’d thought I could keep you safe.”

“You make a good hobbit with your bare feet,” Bilbo murmured, then promptly closed his eyes and began to snore gently. Thorin huffed a laugh and pulled blankets and furs up to cover his husband until there was little left save for curls and the nose Thorin loved to kiss. He did so now, then left the chambers to find Oin.

 

Slowly the mountain began to recover. Dwalin relished being well again, though everyone assumed that he took the most pleasure from telling a sick Bilbo that he should stay in bed or he’d get his ears pinched. Surprisingly – or not so, depending on who you asked – Bilbo still had incredible aim from the bed with whatever he could find to use as a projectile.

Dernwyn continued to remain ill, but began to rally at last. Enough that Fili was talked out of calling for outside help from Bard or even Lord Elrond. None of the Line of Durin were affected, much to Dernwyn and Bilbo’s relief. Being parted from one’s heart was hard, harder still when one was sick.

Gimli took ill not long after Bilbo, though he remained upbeat about it. Still, it left Tauriel distressed and worried for her friend, and once she convinced the dwarves that elves could not become ill with the diseases of men, she was allowed to sit beside her friend to speak with him. Legolas spent his time with Kili, and the two helped with the guard where they could, as many were still out ill. Dis offered to help Oin, and when she wasn’t with him, she was aiding Balin with doing the duties necessary to run the kingdom. Even if Thorin hadn’t been with Bilbo most of the time, he was far too distracted to handle most of what was necessary, and finally they’d simply ushered him back to the chambers to stay with Bilbo.

The snow outside raged on, until finally one day, two and a half weeks after the first case of illnesses came to Oin, the snow stopped, and the sun came out.

 

Bofur gave three gentle knocks to the door, which was actually closed. Huh. He’d have guessed it would’ve been ajar, given that-

The answer was swift: the door swung open, and Thorin stood before him, already closing his robe over his night clothes. “Where is he?” he asked.

Bofur grinned. Middle of the night, and the King still knew all the right questions to ask. “Kitchens,” he said. “That’s where Bombur found ‘im. Keepin’ an eye on him so far, but he should be-“

“In bed,” Thorin growled, shaking his head. “Considering all the grief he gave Dwalin…” He marched for the stairs, and Bofur didn’t have the heart to tell him one of his braids was coiled atop his head like a snake. Or a pretty dwarven lass’s updo. No, not right now. Not with a certain hobbit wandering about when he should still be abed.

Bombur gave them a friendly wave when they found him. “In there,” he said. “Kept him from the fire. Think he’s looking for honeycombs.”

Thorin just kept going, and Bofur stopped at the door, watching the moment Thorin changed from King Under the Mountain to Husband of Bilbo Baggins. Never failed to impress, that was for certain. He was good for Bilbo, and Bilbo was certainly good for him. It made Bofur happy for his friends. Almost made him want to search again for someone to call his own.

One day. It’d happen one day, he supposed. For now, he had a good family, and even a niece to call his own. It was worrying, though, how long Dernwyn had been sick. Oin had told him the men suffered from this longer, though the healer was beginning to worry about her lungs. If Bofur had to wander through the melting snows himself to get to Dale and find a remedy for men, by Mahal, he’d do it.

Soft murmuring voices caught his attention, and Bofur couldn’t help but sneak a peek inside. Bilbo stood, trembling with the fever, glaring with kittenish anger at the tea boxes before him. Thorin spoke again, his voice barely heard from the doorway. When he reached out for Bilbo, however, Bilbo finally pushed the tea boxes aside and swayed just slightly, enough for Thorin to pull him into his embrace and steady him. Glassy, fevered eyes looked up at Thorin, and Thorin tenderly pushed curls away, trying to hide his worry and failing.

“Disgusting,” Bombur said, shaking his head.

Bofur gave him a look complete with raised eyebrows. “You think _this_ is disgustin’? You should see ‘em at supper. They keep lookin’ at each other with those big eyes and little smiles…they’re _cute_.”

Bombur shuddered. “Watching each other instead of food. Just not right.”

“It really isn’t,” Bofur said. In the kitchen, Bilbo was reaching for a tea box, and Thorin carefully pushed it away before leading Bilbo back to the door. It didn’t take much: Bilbo really wasn’t putting up much of a resistance. Bofur thought about it and realized that Bilbo did look like a kitten, one barely taken from its mother: blearily blinking at things, stumbling every now and then, and nuzzling up to Thorin with every chance he got.

Bombur and Bofur shared a grin. “Good to see, though,” Bombur commented. “Happy for ‘em.”

“Me too,” Bofur said as Thorin and Bilbo neared them. “Me too.” After all of their traveling, after the Arkenstone and the Ring and the trials and tragedies, it was so good to see them together and just _happy_. Bofur couldn’t think of two people who deserved it more.

Though if Thorin sent his husband one more sappy smile, Bofur was going to be ill himself. Honestly, there were other folk around to consider.

 

Dis had to admit, she was almost getting used to the coughing and the sneezing. Though certain people were leaving her very concerned regarding _their_ coughing and sneezing and being ill.

“D’a’ll be fohn,” Bilbo insisted, right before he sneezed again. “Goodness. Ahpol’gees.”

Thorin tugged on Bilbo’s shoulder until the unresisting hobbit rested against him. Bilbo went with a soft sigh and rubbed his nose against Thorin’s arm. Her brother made a face at the wet sounds that were most certainly leaving snot on his clothes, but said nothing.

Dis patted Bilbo on the head. “You have nothing to apologize for. You _are_ getting better, though, right?”

“Slowly but surely,” Oin confirmed. “Fever broke, stomach’s settled, so now we can get nourishment into him. That’ll do him well. Wish I could say the same for Dernwyn, though.”

Dis bit her lip. “Is she still that sick?”

“I’m goin’ to meet Bard tomorrow,” Bofur said with a nod. “They’ve a few things that might help. ‘Specially if it’s in her lungs, now. Dwarven remedies aren’t workin’.”

That was troubling indeed. “Can she still breathe? Have you tried a pot of hot water?” Steam would help, in a pinch, at least to keep Dernwyn almost comfortable before help arrived.

Oin shook his head. “She’s breathing well enough now, and the coughing’s gone, but she’s still sick every day. I worry she’ll be able to keep nothing down. The fact that she’s had this for nearly three weeks now worries me.”

“You think _you’re_ worried,” Fili muttered, and Dis shot her son a sharp look. But Fili was leaning against a table, as if itching to get back into the room next door that held his wife, and was trying to hold himself back. Dis relented and patted him on the shoulder. It didn’t seem to help him at all, but at last his shoulders dropped a little.

Bilbo frowned. “Jud’ sick? Noffing ulse?”

Oin shook himself and leaned his ear horn Bilbo’s way. “Eh? Speak up louder, laddie.”

The look on the hobbit’s face could’ve set drenched lumber aflame. Still, he set his irritation aside, blew his nose into his handkerchief, and tried again. “Jus’ sick? Nothing else?” he enunciated as best he could.

Oin made a face. “As if ‘just sick’ is any way to describe it! She’s just gotten over the coughing and the sneezing, which is a blessing all its own.”

Bilbo slowly swung his gaze to Dis. Dis frowned at the hard stare she got until Bilbo pointed to her and then to the door. When Dis’s frown only deepened, he did it again. “Mayde ‘oo shud talk t’her,” he said.

“Talk to her?” Kili asked, looking perplexed. “What would she be able to talk to Dernwyn about that we couldn’t? I mean, just because we’re not women doesn’t mean we wouldn’t make for good conversationalists.”

Oh Mahal. Dis could’ve slapped herself upside the head. Maybe Bilbo was right and their heads _were_ all full of rocks. “It has nothing to do with your conversational merits,” Dis told her son. “I’ll be back.” With that, she stepped into Dernwyn’s room and shut the door behind her.

“Still sick,” Dernwyn called out as a warning. Dis tsked and made her way to the bed. Dernwyn looked to have better color than Bilbo now, but her eyes still held bags beneath them that spoke of disturbed sleep. Beyond that, however, she was sitting up in bed, an urn not far out of reach.

Dis remembered this well. She thought it a bit funny that Bilbo would’ve been the one to figure it out first, but her brother had married a clever sort indeed. Plus, the Shire had more experience in this matter than most dwarves did, or so she’d been told.

“Let me guess. You’re sick in the mornings, so sick you can’t stand the smell or thought of food. Yet not a few hours later, you’re willing to try a broth, and something odd sounds delectable, something that you shouldn’t have because you’re sick. And you’re breathing fine, feeling fine otherwise, except for the fact that you start feeling ill again…typically in the morning.”

Dernwyn frowned. “Yes…?”

They probably would’ve noticed sooner, if not for the fact that everyone had taken sick all at once. “Dernwyn, daughter-mine,” she said, smiling broadly. “You’re not sick anymore.”

“I’m not sick? Then how…” Understanding dawned on Dernwyn’s face, and her eyes went wide. “No.”

“Yes,” Dis confirmed.

“Oh,” Dernwyn said, blinking. Then she began to smile, a beautiful smile that lit up her entire face. “We’d been wanting, and hoping, but…”

Dwarves were not entirely the most fertile race in all of Middle-Earth. And Dis knew that Fili and Dernwyn had held hopes for a family. This was nothing short of a blessing. “Congratulations,” Dis said, and Dernwyn began to laugh before bursting into tears.

Ah, that sounded about right. Dis turned and headed for the door, then nearly got caught in the landslide of dwarves who’d been leaning on the door to listen. She rolled her eyes and looked over at Thorin and Bilbo, one of whom was confused, and one of whom looked far too smug for someone who was ill. “You were right,” she said, and Bilbo grinned and sniffled.

“Right about what?” Thorin asked with a frown, watching Fili race to his weeping wife.

“She’s just fine,” Dis said. “And I’m going to be a grandmother.”

Having it confirmed sent the dwarves into a boisterous celebration, and Dernwyn stopped crying and started laughing again. Fili looked as if he’d pass out but do so with a smile. Kili was bouncing around and dancing with Legolas who just laughed and spun with him.

Bilbo sneezed into his handkerchief three times. “A good omen!” Bofur shouted, and another chorus of cheers went up.

“Yes, glad my being sick’s all good for you,” Bilbo deadpanned. Thorin coughed to cover his grin, then cringed when Bilbo sneezed _again_ but right into Thorin’s sleeve. Bilbo grinned triumphantly.

And when the mountain was well again, and the men returned to sell their wares, fabrics that were soft in nature and perfect for a newborn child were the biggest hit by far. And if the King Under the Mountain bought a great many handkerchiefs for his husband, well, no one called him on it, especially the Guard.


End file.
